God Echoes

Scholar of Stars by Tommy Arnold for MTG

We bathe in the light of long-dead stars*. We see them as present things, with names and placements, but in truth they have already departed and become space-stuff. What we see of them is an echo of what was once there.

Stars, in that sense, are a good analogy for gods.

The gods we know are dead. Divine magic and, to an extent, religion, is built on jet lag; their divine presence and gifts are received from afar (it is said that the realm of the gods is high above the clouds, which is true in the same way that saying "the sun is hot" is true) and are then bestowed and interpreted in the present. It explains much of why the gods work in mysterious ways, or over great periods of time; so too does it explain why individual prayers are so rarely answered, and why the gods so rarely speak to individuals.

The gods knew this, and as such they sent their influence with the knowledge that its effects would not be known to mortals until generations after they are gone. Texts on stone, songs to pass down through the generations - these are the tools of gods that wanted their messages to last. Miracles were sent with the hope that they would still needed by the time they arrive; alternatively, events may be finely orchestrated so that miracles and events occurred as planned.

This time dissonance is why the gods were so fond of prophecy and oracles; vague enough to be applicable to future civilisations, but refined enough that even if the specific Ancient Evil described is already destroyed, it can still guide others to deal with similar problems.

Elements to explore:

• Some gods try to get closer to the mortal realm to reduce the gap between their actions and their consequences. The proximity to the mortal world influences their power; is this an effect of abandoning the celestial realm?
• Miracles, divine magic etc. are, to an extent, pre-written code. What happens if there is an error in this code? How does the delay in prayers and answers affect the role and interpretation of deities and priests?
• The gods are, as stated, dead. What happens when gods decay? What happens if mortals learn that their prayers will not go answered, for all decisions of the gods have already been made - deity predeterminism confirmed.

I could see elements of my Charles Dexter Ward prompt being incorporated here on a larger scale.

This post was partially inspired by stars, and partially inspired by GPT-2 Religion AI, a bot on Twitter that generates scripture extracts. One of my recent favourites is:

I make them into machines, so that I may come into being. I am impelled by their will, so that the universe may die of itself. With this empty shell, I forge a God, living on and becoming dust. With this, I curse the darkness and vomit it into the void.

*opening line shamelessly stolen from a fellow member of DoMT staff. Sorry, Damian! 

Player-led Game Conceptualisation

Not really a post-proper, more of a writeup of some stuff I've been thinking about over the past few days as I go through GM withdrawal. It is by no means meant to be a gripping read.

I think some of my favourite games to plan have been the ones where the players suggested the base premise. The players-to-be sat in a group, eating snacks and talking about what would be cool to play. In one instance, the group said they wanted to be somewhere non-temperate and fight a classical D&D villain of high level. Tomb of Annihilation was just about to launch, and from it the Jungle-infested island of Sebek was born, under threat from a slaad-growing lich. In another instance, the group had seen a comic premise for a prince & his allies seeking to reclaim the throne. From this we created the starting blocks of a realm-spanning political campaign, as the group designated one player to be the prince they rallied behind as they went to gather unlikely allies and reclaim the throne from a mysterious usurper.

The reasoning for this is obvious. It immediately creates player investment: this is what they think will be fun. Much can be gained from players having characters they are invested in, but starting off with a story that they want to see through, or themes they want to explore, or a setting that comes from a shared moment of creativity can also work wonders.

It builds hype as we discuss the idea: spoilers are out the window as the game isn't made, we're just throwing ideas around of what would work and what wouldn't. It keeps me on my toes and gives me an opportunity to try something new. I would not voluntarily choose to create a campaign about succession and the merits of monarchy, but it was super fun to explore the idea and make it into something; it was even better to see the ideas the players came up with and weave them into the story.

There are of course limits. In both of these cases, the ideas just clicked with everyone in the group, but this won't always be the case. Perhaps if this was going to be refined into a more organised system – a player led Session Zero perhaps? – then some guidelines would need to be placed, both in terms of majority preference and what the DM is not interested in running.

I should try and do this more often.

Diving Deep #2

Same as last week. Away we go.

Crossing the Rubicon by Jason deCaires Taylor

Here we see the remnants of a group of pilgrims, believed to have been members of Atlantean lower classes. Around the time of the collapse of Atlantis - this being, of course, after the city was swallowed into the ocean - impoverished members of society were swept up in zealous fervour by an unnamed prophet, who told them of a promised land far from Atlantis, which could only be reached through the marching of feet and the sweat on their brows. In a mass migration, they fled the crumbling city and traveled onwards.

They were promised eternal life. That their presence would be felt throughout the centuries.

Like most promises of that scale, they were empty and twisted. It is unknown what caused the petrification. Some suspect a mistranslation of a time stop spell; a last-ditch attempt to save their people from the oncoming plague that seemed to expand from the city they left behind, leaving them unblemished by foulness in the water. Others suspect the prophet was simply mad, or cruel, or just tired of the ceaseless marching. A minority believe that this was the cause of Atlantis's downfall, and elsewhere in the depths there must be a larger collection of statues from the city itself.

These statues still think and remember and regret. Telepathy can reach them, but spells to commune with the dead do not. Their speech and thoughts are slow, like communing with the spirits of mountains. They ask if they've arrived yet, if the walk has ended, why the waters have become so cold and numb.

They move sometimes. Small increments, less than a metre a year. Still shuffling towards the promised lands. Slow enough fro corals to embed in the rock, for worms to make homes in their petrified circulatory systems.

another sculpture by Jason deCaires Taylor

Making My Own New Crobuzon

I saw that this post by The Githyanki Diaspora has come up to the surface, and thought I'd give it a go as a way to ease myself back into blog posting (been very busy this past month, hence the drop in activity and relatively low quality of this post).

The concept is straightforward: take three monstrous humanoids and three monstrous monsters. These are the residents of your New Crobuzon (based on the city within China Mieville's Bas Lag trilogy). I've decided to go with monsters found in 5th edition D&D to the surprise of none.

Styx by Circle Art

The City

A canal city, founded across a Stygian archipelago. The dead wash upon their shores and float through their canals, providing nutrients and income. Those that aren't quite dead bring with them a willingness to do anything to survive - a willingness that is fully exploited and is an essential part of the city's biome.

The city is simply known as 'the city' to many. The Styx's influence on the memory is strong, and trying to place a name on things is harder still when every bit of water within the city is tainted with the Styx's influence. Over time, all residents lose themselves, becoming a caricature of who they once were and an archetypal resident.

The Residents

Myconids: Decomposers of the bodies that wash up within the city; their mycelium stretch out across the canals and bridges. Many myconids escape within the shared spore-driven dream, clinging onto their shared memories to maintain a state of remembrance and cultural identity. Their physical forms meanwhile remain docile and drugged, used as labourers, messengers, and ferrymen.

Sprites: Sprites are the keepers of law and authority within the city. The city's law is not that of the book, but of the heart, for they can see the true colours of those they touch. They make their homes in the slumbering myconid sovereigns, where they cast judgemental looks at the fiends that they share the city with.

Succubi/Incubi: Where there are souls willing to give themselves willingly to anyone able to give them even the briefest respite from the end, there are fiends ready to be of service. Whilst this was the original reason for their settlement, succubi have grown to enjoy the lack of attention they get here; there are few unwanted lustful looks to be had from mushrooms. Their natural aptitude for charisma leads incubi and succubi to take roles in diplomacy and bartering, whilst their superior ability to defend themselves over myconids and sprites also lends many of them to take security roles.

Crokek'toeck from Baldur's Gate - Descent into Avernus

The Outsiders

Crokek'toeck: This lumbering beast is a mascot of sorts to the city, acting as transport between the city's main islands. It is unaffected by the influence of the Styx, and many theorise that, if it were only smarter, it would be an invaluable resource of information on the city's history and residents.

Intellect Devourers: A customary assassination involves providing the target with an elaborate chest, within which is an intellect devourer that has been chosen to start a new life in the city, taking the victim's place and aiming to amend or avoid the mistakes they made. Many parasitise Crokek'toeck or lurk in the undercity, waiting to ambush unsuspecting victims.

Ixitxachitl: Below the waters of the Styx, the ray-like ixitxachitl act as the city's criminal underworld. For an extortionate price, they'll help those that fall into the waters; for an even higher one, they'll give them back to their families after holding the victim for ransom and taking glee in watching their memories and minds deteriorate.

Sources:

Crokek'toeck - Baldur's Gate – Descent into Avernus, pg 230
Intellect devourer - Monster Manual, pg 191
Ixitxachitl - Out of the Abyss, pg 225-226
Myconid - Monster Manual, pg 230-232
Sprite - Monster Manual, pg 283
Succubus/Incubus - Monster Manual, pg 284-285

How a Dwarf is Made

Updated on 24/09/2019 to add more depth. Thank you to my readers for getting me to do more with this; I appreciate it when people show interest in my ideas, and when they're willing to tell me that these ideas need to be worked on.

Dwarves are not born; they're made. When a dwarf wants to make a child, they collect materials and begin their project. For some it takes months, others years to get their child together. Some dwarves find themselves overcome by a desire to construct new life - a moment of flash brilliance, akin to a eureka moment. Whilst this may be directed into other constructive pursuits, the potential to make children is always there.

The materials shape the dwarf, but the exact specifics of how are unknown. A mixture of geology and physiognomy is sought to inform the parents of what is best used for their child. The most common material is clay; easy to work with and mold, good for creating a sense of character. Others may be made of soapstone or alabaster. Dwarves with a marble birth are seen in many cultures as being of higher stock, as marble cannot be reworked once carved, meaning they were made with skilled hands and a great deal of preparation.

With no bloodlines to speak of, families and clans are defined by what materials they were made from, where those materials were collected from, and who brought them into the living world. Family relations and proximity can be defined by impurities in the building materials. Whilst an adult dwarf is for all intents and purposes made of flesh, elements of their rock-form still remain in their appearance. Parents are defined by those that crafted their body and whispered the words of life to them. This means a dwarf could have only one parent, or could have half a dozen.

Each child is unique, each one perfect and flawed in its own ways. Baby dwarves look more like golems than adults; as they age they come to resemble living things more and more. During their development they are malleable, both in mind and in body. Strict parents may threaten their children with being returned to the kiln for further work.

When they are created, they are traditionally given time to set, both physically and spiritually. This is time for the earth to find them and know their presence, and for the spirit of the child to find its way into its new body. Once this time comes to an end, the parent(s) hold their child close, whisper their name to them, and give them life.

Of course, time has taken its toll and changed the ways children come into being. Midwives can be commissioned to sculpt a child on one's behalf, or to at least take a more prominent role in smoothing out features and cleaning up the model before life is given. Households may hire the same sculptor time and time again, each with their own signature style of craftsmanship. The discovery of golemancy and the making of constructs has caused cracks in dwarven culture, with some seeing them as a human would see a newly-discovered primate, whilst others see them with the same sense of looming fear as modern man sees a robot/A.I. takeover.

Industrial creation is always an option, though many would claim the children made in the same casts and forges lack the same depth of character, the same intricacies of personhood. There is little to make them unique, no caring touch of a parent, no nurturing loved one to hold their cold body close and bring them into the waking world. In some communities, bringing new dwarves into being is overseen by a committee to ensure the construction is reasonable and follows the community's values.

In rare cases, dwarves may seek to create child clones of themselves. Whilst this is possible - reports do speak of entire clone colonies made to explore new caverns and set up duplicate settlements - the process of creation does not absolutely determine the individual's personality, only their external form.

Myths speak of the dwarves being crafted into being, then being taught how to make more of their own kind. Many more tales of old speak of heroes made from polished marble, tragic heroes covered in deep crack-like scars, and the construction of sentient prosthetic limbs crafted after losing limbs in battle.

Selkie Race for D&D 5e

In a similar time frame to making my medusoids, I also made a race block for selkies, a creature from Scottish folklore that is essentially a sensible response to the Mermaid Problem but with seals instead of fish.

The Selkie by Kitty-Grimm

Here's the lore part I included:

The elusive selkies or seal-folk are mostly known of through sea shanties and bard songs; typically the tales of fishermen that steal their pelts and coerce them into marriage. The pelt must be hidden, for as soon as the selkie finds her pelt, she returns to the sea and is never seen again.

Few selkies that choose to interact with the surface world are open about their origin, predominantly due to these tales. Those that are not deterred by these stories tend to come to land to either learn more of the strange world of air and sky, or to seek vengeance for the hunting of one of their kin or the polluting of their homelands.

A selkie without their pelt is near identical to a human, bar some unusual skin blemishes akin to seal spots and the smell of salt on their skin. The children of humans and selkies are less fortunate; they are born with webbed hands and feet, with a rare few born with even more seal-like traits. These individuals may be kept on land by their human parent as a reminder of the love they once had, or rejected and cast out into the cold seas that are no more their home than the harbor towns and fishing villages they were born in.

I've also included a rough statblock for a generic seal, given that there wasn't one already (I mean, there's the sea lion, which could maybe be a form obtained later on as a feat or something?)

To read the racial statblock, check out the link here. The art in the document is Vengeful Selkie by BeaGifted.

Medusoids: Jellyfish people for D&D 5e

Just a quick post today, sharing a brew for jellyfish people inspired by Caitlin Soliman's art, especially her jellyfish-themed mermaids:

Here are just a few of them!

As a bit of lore for them:

Watchers of the tides and archivists of history, the medusoids measure their lives not in years, but in aspects: units of time defined by going from one life to another. As one aspect withers, it is rejuvenated into an infant state, equipped with knowledge from its past lives and a fresh, new outlook on the future.

Medusoids that answer the call to adventure do so due to a need to change the world they have witnessed for so long, either to restore some constant balance or to instil long-needed change. Though not physically strong, they compensate for this with great knowledge and an array of nematocyst-ridden tendrils emerging from their bodies.

Tales from the surface speak little of the medusoids, other than sailors telling drunken tales of singing jellyfish, ghosts of drowned wives-to-be, and strange findings of translucent clumps of vaguely humanoid flesh washed up on beaches, clean of pecks by any seabirds.

To read the racial statblock, check out the link here.